When I woke up from a crazy dream about locking some evil man to a chain link fence and leaving him there to watch helplessly as his pet gerbil whom we left in a cage marked with a swastica was captured and tortured by the Nazi's, I still hadn't made up my mind about which offer to take. I think its safe to assume the dream was some kind of indication of the stress and pressure I was feeling about making a decision.
I called Suleiman first. He was understandably frustrated and upset that I hadn't made a decision yet. After all, he had done a lot for me and had helped me out considerably, for example, he was paying for the accommodation I was staying in right now. He proceeded to tell me that If I didn't sign with the dental college, that I would have to pay for said housing and that he would tell the new company not to pay for my ticket home either, and since he was in charge of all their finances at the moment he could do that. I pointed out that the new now old company was obligated to pay for my housing and ticket until I could leave the country. He pointed out that normally, this is true, but that the contract I had signed with the new old company was with London, and because we had not yet signed a contract in Saudi since they have no business license in Saudi, then I had no case. If I went to the ministry of labor, they would tell me that there was no such company, and that the contract I signed with London was not valid here in Saudi. If this phone call was a tennis game, he had just served match point. He told me I had until noon today to make a decision.
I called the second company next. I told him that I would be kicked out of my housing today, and that they would not agree to transfer the iqama. He said there was a plan B, which would be if I were to get the final exit and then go home and go through the whole visa process again. This could take months, and there was no real guarantee that I could get a second visa. He told me first I should try to stick to plan A, go to the Ministry of Labor, tell them the situation and try to see if they could help. I knew it was a hail mary, but I also figured I would regret not trying it if I didn't give it a shot.
I hailed a taxi (I was getting pretty good at it), and asked him to go to the Ministry of Labor and haggled our way to a fare of 30 SAR ($10). He assured me he knew where it was and off we went. There was a lot of traffic so it took a while to get to the street where all the Ministry buildings were located. The problem was, the Ministry of Labor is not on the same street as all the other ministries. For some reason, it is located about 10 blocks away. Unfortunately, neither I nor the taxi driver knew this. After we drove up and down the street looking for it a few times, I finally called the second company out of desperation and asked him to help direct the taxi driver. About 20 minutes we pulled up to a building with a discouragingly long line of men out front. I paid the driver and walked up to the building, trying to figure out which of the three entrances I should go in. I opted for the one with all the filipinos lining up in front of it, figuring that they probably have the most to complain about. I stood in line for a while but I quickly noticed that the guards were not letting anyone in, and I knew there must be a women's branch somewhere and there were only men in this line, so I abandoned it in favor of another door.
There was no wait at this door, and there were only Saudi men sitting around waiting, but there was a friendly looking guy at the front desk who wasn't already busy helping anyone so I took a chance and asked for the women's branch. He shrugged and told me he didn't speak English, and I said the world girl in arabic with a question mark sound to it. I was trying to use the limited Arabic I knew to ask about the ladies branch for complaints, but from the expression on his face he either thought I was not sure of my gender or of his. He called over another guy. I tried to ask about the ladies branch from him too. He smiled and kind of laughed, then called over a third guy, who also didn't seem to understand. A forth guy came over to join in, and now I realized I was completely surrounded. Luckily, this forth guy actually did speak some English so I asked for the ladies branch, but he wanted to know instead if I had a problem and what it was, so I figured, why not, and I gave him a brief history of my employment disasters. He listened sympathetically, then conferred in Arabic with the group of now 7-10 curious Saudi men before finally telling me that, surely, they can help, but that I will need to go to the Ladies branch to get help. So, armed with directions told to me once in arabic, and then again in English, I headed off to find building number 5.
I passed the long line of filipinos and rounded the corner, but there were no other buildings, just this large one, so building 5 had to be inside somewhere. I went up to a security guard and asked about building 5 and he pointed to the next door. I went to that guard and asked about building 5. He nodded, but pointed back toward the line of Filipinos. I pointed to my headscarf and said, women. It was as if someone had turned on a light bulb, "oh, your a woman!" so he let me come in and pointed me down a hallway which led to.... the inside of the doors all the Filipinos were waiting outside of. I asked again and they pointed me to another set of doors, which I went through. I spotted another woman, a Filipino with her husband so I followed them to a door marked "Ladies only" and as the three of us walked in I was thinking that there must be a joke in this somewhere about being a woman but no lady, or the husband being let in because he was very feminine, or something, but my joke search was interrupted by the shouts of an angry Saudi man who was evidently very upset that the husband had tried to enter the ladies section. While they were shouting, I slipped in so I could get in line ahead of that woman and her husband.
I needn't have worried. There were only about 3 women in the tiny waiting room. I asked the receptionist who directed me right away to a woman who spoke English. I explained my situation and she asked if I had any dispute about salary or payment. I told her, no, it's really just about getting a transfer or final exit. She told me she couldn't help me here. She told me I needed to go to the transfer office downtown. She said if I wanted to complain about money or housing, I could do it here, but transferring was all with a different office. Not wanting to repeat the same taxi game, I asked her to write down the name and address of the new building in Arabic so I could show the taxi driver.
I got into another taxi, showed him the paper and for 20 riyals we were off. He took me to an area of down town that I had never been before. We drove under the intersection of two huge overpasses both streets were full of small vendors pushing carts of oranges, and socks and phone chargers. It was busy and exciting and not a mall! I wished I wasn't on a deadline before noon, or I might have asked him to stop so I could have a look around, although I didn't see any women there. After another few minutes he pulled up in front of a strip mall and indicated that this was the place. I did a double take. It seemed like just some shops and a parking garage that was guarded by two men with guns. He motioned that I should walk through the parking garage. I handed over the money, and cautiously stepped out. I showed the paper to one of the guards, who told me to go straight through the parking lot and then go left. At least, I think that is what he was saying. Thank goodness hand signals are more or less universal.
Not at all sure of myself, I made my way to the back of the parking garage. There behind this strip mall were the corners of what must have once been a really cool old fortress. To the right was a non-descript building, but there were two women walking that way toward a door on the side, so I followed them. There wasn't much of a side-walk because the area to the right of the building was all under construction. There was a guard gate about two thirds of the way down, and that guard told me to go inside a door that was unmarked, but big and heavy and made of wood. There was a symbol on the front, but it wasn't the same as the Ministry of Labour's seal, so I was sceptical. Inside there was a whole waiting room full of women. There was a reception desk so I made my way over there. There was a woman who seemed to be talking to three people at once. She did a lot of wild gesturing and the other women did a lot of pleading, and eventually, she let one of them go into a door to see someone. Finally it was my turn. I asked if she spoke English and was relieved to find that she did. Until I explained my situation and she looked completely blank. I realized she spoke English the way most taxi drivers here spoke English, they knew only enough to do exactly their job and thats it. I simplified and said I wanted to make a complaint to be transferred and she told me that I would need to write my complaint in Arabic. I asked her if there was anyone who could translate it for me, and she told me there was no one. Another woman who was waiting with two briefcases full of papers chimed in. She said, "I've just paid 8,000 Riyals to have all of these translated to Arabic," I've been fighting this case for nearly 9 months now." She hefted the bags of documents she was carrying. "It's literally been my baby." We exchanged looks of mutual frustration.
I asked the woman if there was a way to send it by mail or email so I wouldn't have to come back here once I had it translated. She told me the governor didn't give out his email, but she thought maybe I could send a telegram. A telegram? Do they still do that? I asked her where I was exactly, who I would be sending a telegram to, and she said, "In the office of the Governor of Riyadh, didn't you know?" I told her I didn't, and thought I was in the Ministry of the Interior because I thought that was who handled transfer cases. She insisted I was in the right place. I asked her how I could go about sending a telegram. She told me to go to the post office. I asked her where I could find a post office. She told me there was one very near by and I could just take a taxi. I could tell by now she was getting very frustrated and impatient, there were a lot of women behind me waiting to speak with her.
I nodded and left the desk. I called the owner of the second company to give him the update. He told me that there was a post office near where I was and to call again if I had any trouble finding it. He said to call him when I reached the post office and he would dictate the telegram in Arabic for me. I asked about needing an address or something to send the telegram to, and he told me that they would know the address of the Governor so it shouldn't be a problem. I wasn't so sure, but the receptionist had disappeared behind the door already, so I just left her a sticky note to thank her for all her help.
I negotiated 10 riyals for the 4 block trip to the post office. It actually took me longer to find the door to the post office than the entire cab trip. Turns out, there was an escalator to a basement floor and inside was the post office. I went inside, and then nearly turned around again. There were only men, and I wondered if perhaps there was a women's section that I should be in because every eye in the place was on me. I cautiously walked up to a "take a number" consul which fortunately had an English language option. Unfortunately, it didn't have a send a telegram option. So I chose customer service instead. My number was 362. The number in the now serving window was 27. I waited a few minutes to observe, and quickly realized everyone was just wandering up to random counters. So I went for the shortest line and stood behind a short Filipino man who was clearly sending a package home. Finally it was my turn. I asked if the sent telegrams. He looked confused. I asked if he spoke English, and he called over another employee. I asked him about telegrams and he looked just as confused. We don't send telegrams any more. He said. I nodded in agreement. It was a rather quaint form of communication. I asked what they suggested to get a message to the Governer's office. He told me I should write a letter and send it in the mail. He said they usually got mail to important people like that within a week. I didn't really want to leave, but I couldn't think of anything else to ask. I had been chasing a wild goose all morning, and was no closer to making a decision. It was however, much closer to the noon deadline. 11:50 to be exact, and the post office was closing for prayer.
I sat down to wait for prayer to finish and to think. I knew that I could probably get transferred eventually If I went through all of these channels and spent weeks or even months going from ministry to ministry. I also knew that I would have no where to live until it got sorted out. I also knew that I wouldn't be being paid the whole time it was being sorted, and there could be no guarantee how long that would take. Even though I resented Suleiman for making me feel trapped into taking the job at the medical school, I told myself it wouldn't be so bad. After all, it was about even with FATE on the chart, and it was only my gut decision that was pushing me to go with FATE. After a day of running around Riyadh, getting into all kinds of confusing and new situations and seeing that there might be more to Riyadh than malls, I felt better about staying. And I felt a renewed sense of challenge about working in a place where everyday would be like this, working with people who mostly couldn't understand me, and who I mostly couldn't understand. Maybe working at the medical college, I would finally make middle eastern friends instead of spending all of my time with ex-pats. I figured, I could give it a try, I could go ahead and start with the medical college, just to have some place to live and some income. Meanwhile, I could file a case with all the Ministries and see where that got me.
Dejected and resigned, I called Suleiman and told him I had made my decision. I would begin work with the medical school the next day, but I had one condition. I asked him how long he thought it would take for them to transfer my iqama. He told me it would be fast, two days maybe. I told him I would give him a whole week, and that if they didn't have the iqama by then, I wanted out. He told not to worry, that I was finally talking sense and had made the right decision. I told him that I hoped so and made my way back outside into down town Riyadh, my new home.
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